


it's a subtle difference over a day

by whispered



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Developing Relationship, First Time, M/M, hints at sherlock's inner child, sherlock's silly mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:33:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered/pseuds/whispered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's when Sherlock has his whole right hand wrapped around twinkle lights and he turns around to face John, that he realizes that whatever the future holds, he's glad he's got his best man here, just right here, safe and sound and never to be left alone again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's a subtle difference over a day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Dedicated to a lovely friend whose helped me with my writing. Inspired me, really. She challenged me with the words: light pole, whisper, and maps. There are hints at ageplay and Sherlock's inner child but nothing definite. 
> 
> Thank you Selena for editing for me. I am but nothing without you.

It's John first, who enters the flat with his hands on his knees and his chest quivering with the echoes of laughter that trailed in through central London. Sherlock's just behind, tugging at the rim of his scarf with a bold expression on his face that reads anything but sociopath. The cool, crisp air of Christmas Eve in London is long forgotten as the thrill of the chase leaves them high on adrenaline and for once in a long time, Sherlock is allowed to be a junkie just once more and he savors it all.  
  
They rest there until the laughter fades and Sherlock clasps his hand on John's back and they take to the confines of their flat - their home away from home because no one knows them here and Sherlock, being anything but a sociopath and all, hopes no one ever will.  
  
"You do know Mrs. Hudson is going to have your arse for trailing all of that snow up here," John says, tipping backwards into his chair and toeing off his shoes one by one. He ought to start a fire but he's still warm from running and screaming and chasing this madman (no, _not_ the suspect) half around London that the fire can wait. "Hell, I'm going to have your arse because I'm going to be the one that has to clean it."  
  
Sherlock smirks and quirks a brow, tumbling into his own chair with his legs stretching out, occupying John's own legroom without a second thought, "Didn't know you saw me like that, John."  
  
If it had been any year but, John would have billowed out his favorite words: _I'm not gay, you know_. But, instead, it is Christmas Eve and he simply chucks one of the rolled up magazines at the consulting detective, which, of course, Sherlock catches without a second glance. There is a pause as it tumbles to the ground and they both break out in laughter.  
  
"You know you're going to help," John says, crossing his arms across his chest and there are beads of tears forming at the crinkled corners of his eyes. Sherlock can't help but notice these things. He always notices these things. Though, being a sociopath (in mind, at the very least), he stores them away in boxes and keeps them to himself.

"Sherlock."  
  
Threaded from his own thoughts, Sherlock catches reality once again and huffs before stretching his toes, flicking a glance at the empty fireplace and then back to John.  
  
"Oh no, Sherlock. Not this time. I just about broke my back running through London. You can start the fire."  
  
Sherlock only stares, lips pursed in a straight line; and there is the solid fact that Sherlock can be a brat, hindering in the background.  
  
It is Christmas Eve and John can't deny the man anything, so he starts the fire and makes tea and brings back blankets. The quietness of Christmas morning dawning welcomes them to their home away from home.  
  
There is no Christmas music tonight, but that's alright because they talk and laugh and they fall asleep in their own respective chairs.  
  
They're just like children waiting for Santa Claus.  
  
*  
  
It's Christmas morning some hours later and John cracks his neck at odd angles trying to outwit the unnatural sleep he had the night prior. Sherlock's already awake, tapping away at his laptop with such diligence that it should be illegal on Christmas Day. Mrs. Hudson brings up breakfast, bless her heart, and while Sherlock refuses to eat off his own plate, he steals four bites of eggs and half a slice of bacon off of John's. John really ought to complain, but Sherlock's eating and there is some domesticality behind it all that he can't find it in his heart to do so.  
  
They spend the first hours of Christmas morning together. They exchange gifts, John knowing that Sherlock was secretly happy just to do so. He doesn't have to be a consulting detective or even a genius to know that Sherlock craves these moments. He's never had them, and John suspects that fact even goes into the deep depths of Sherlock's youth. It's the way that Sherlock has to look away when he's thinking about what's just beyond the bow and ribbon and the millimeter that his lips curve up when he begins to unwrap his present. It doesn't matter what is underneath the wrapping - just that he's allowed to do such things of this nature.  
  
John could question for details, and perhaps, just perhaps, Sherlock would tell him, but instead he doesn't and simply focuses on the sole minute of Christmas morning where Sherlock Holmes is happy. He's simply a person opening a present instead of a psychopath. It's a nice change of pace and it makes John want Christmas to come more than once a year.  
  
John gets Sherlock a new test tube set, a subscription to the newest Science Journal of London, an ugly sweater (that John thinks isn't _that_ ugly), and a card that promises one night out, no questions asked.  
  
It really ought to have been romantic in nature, but Sherlock knows what it means.  
  
"Even if we have to jump into the Thames?"  
  
"Even then, Sherlock."  
  
"You do know how cold the Thames is tonight, John."  
  
"Well let's hope that London's criminals give us the night off. My good thermals are in the wash and I'm not in the mood to dig through it all so we can piss off Lestrade by fetching him in for a case."  
  
Sherlock tilts his head and finally a smile settles there before he offers two words that are always there, but not always spoken allowed. "Thank you."  
  
Sherlock gives John a nice bottle of scotch, an updated copy of his word processing software ("really, John, this is from decades ago. How am I supposed to use it?"), an ugly sweater (it really is atrocious), and tickets to the play he'd been wanting to see.  
  
It's almost noon and they start a new fire. Mycroft will pay a visit soon and John really needs to get ready to see his girlfriend later this afternoon, but again, he can't be bothered because Sherlock is having too much fun playing with the twinkle lights that lay around the fireplace and John's seat is just too comfortable.  
  
It's when Sherlock has his whole right hand wrapped around twinkle lights and he turns around to face John, that he realizes that whatever the future holds, he's glad he's got his best man here, just right here, safe and sound and never to be left alone again.  
  
*  
  
It's an hour and a half later when John's changed and Sherlock's only started his throw of pouting. John thinks that this is usual - the Sherlock strop where he will cry himself into a slumber and then go destroy something in the flat upon his awakening, but, really, this is just Sherlock being quite upset to be left alone. Not that Sherlock's going to admit such truths.  
  
"Mycroft is going to pass by soon, Sherlock. You know you won't be alone for too long," John says, but Sherlock plays it off cool and simply lifts his violin to his shoulder.  
  
"I don't need Mycroft," Sherlock states, and he opens his lips to say: _I don't need you_ , but he's learned through years of evidence that that's not true at all and since he only deals in facts, he offers something else, "When will you be home?"  
  
John's checking himself in the mirror above the fireplace and he catches Sherlock's gaze. Truth be told, he really doesn't want to leave but promises are promises and John's a doctor and well, he just has to be good. Sometimes. "I told Vanessa that I would stop by for a little. I'll try and edge out of there soon enough, alright?"  
  
When had it ever mattered, John coming home? Never, really. Sherlock had come home, after three long years, and even then, John went on with life even after they transitioned back to reality. John stayed the night at other's houses. John went out to pubs and had mates and he had some sort of freedom that allowed him to exist in the world as John Watson. But something sat in the pit of the consulting detective's stomach where it dawned on him that, without the shorter man, he was merely what he was before he had met the man - nothing much at all.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
Once again, Sherlock blinks away from his thoughts and raises his bow to begin to play a tune.  
  
"Back around seven then, yeah?" John says. Sherlock only nods, hoping that the opposite keeps to his words. He doesn't have plans or anything but he knows for a fact that he prefers 221B when John is inhabiting it also.  
  
John is out the door before he can hear what Sherlock plays. It's too romantic to mention but Sherlock plays it on and on and on.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock makes it three hours before he takes host to his bed, flopping down in sheer boredom. Has his life ever been so boring before? He knows there are experiments he could start or even ones he could continue to work on and the test tubes that John got for him are just beckoning to be inserted with some god-awful chemical. But in all reality, he simply wants John to come home. He blames it on the fact that he simply thinks that it's more enticing to run amuck when he has someone to watch - he does enjoy to show off - but he's not idiotic enough to avoid the truth of it all.  
  
He goes forth in his endeavors to find sleep but that restlessness only manages about half an hour before he begins pacing his room. He stops at a map that dangles near his bookcase to the right. It's a world map, aged with time, and he sees places that he'd like to go - that'd he like to take John, if John were agreeable. He knows he's only thirty-some-odd years in age and retirement is a word not yet in his dictionary, but he doesn't mind the idea of taking random vacations here or there. Of course, it would be interesting to find a case during their travels, but he likes to think that John would like some time off. With him, just maybe.  
  
It's that truth - the line just above friendship that's always set in the background of their partnership that quivers inside of Sherlock's stomach now. He's always had the notion to avoid it at all costs, he never wants to risk the promising friendship he shares with the doctor, but it sinks in more and more like an anchor as time just goes on. He doesn't typically do these things, and he really thought it would be a nuisance if he got carried away anymore than he already has. But he can't help but wonder what dynamics they would have if they engaged in such a relationship.  
  
Sherlock's an odd man. He's angular to the light and deep inside twirls a man that no one knows about. He's a smart man - one John proclaims as brilliant and spectacular and every other adjective that he can withdraw from his mind palace, but he's also a different man. He knows, psychologically, everyone born into existence carries the same mindset - everyone has someone inside they cater to, and despite the perfection that is Sherlock Holmes, he is not excused from such truths. While many individuals allow their inner-person freedom to exist, Sherlock covers his own as much as he can and only lets John see the edges of the man that sits there.  
  
Sherlock lifts the map off the wall and carries it with him, setting it in his lap as he sits on the far-end edge of his bed. It weighs almost nothing and he traces his fingers along the different countries and continents that he's not yet visited. He really thinks he'd like to take John to many of these places. He's sure John would smile against the backdrop of a beach in Venice and point out the brightest stars in the night sky of Ireland. There are things that Sherlock would like to see - things he's never done because he's shunned much of it away for such a long time.  
  
He knows that extending an invitation into something more with John would open up layers of him that no one has ever seen before. He knows all of John but John does not know all of him and while dealing with a sociopath and psychopath is one thing, dealing with a man whose far more complex is another.  
  
He falls asleep against his fluffiest pillow and almost had all of his thoughts on a relationship involving John deleted, but sleep claims him first.  
  
*  
  
"You best not be in there eating the entire apple strudel," John calls out, peeking his head into the kitchen, the vision of Sherlock mulling over the leftover remains with a fork just beyond the corner. "She made it for us, and just not you."  
  
"I don't want the rest," Sherlock explains and stabs at the baked dessert with a lack of any grace whatsoever. He's partly mad at himself for even wanting to eat something crafted by John's girlfriend and he's partly delighted by the fact that, well, apple strudel is absolutely one of his favorites. It has to be a conspiracy, really.  
  
John leans against the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed at the chest and a befitting smile smug on his lips. It's Christmas night and there's no place else in the world that he wants to spend it. He had a good time at Vanessa's, he did, and well, a snog under mistletoe was a great Christmas present indeed, but he knew of a consulting detective just six or seven blocks away who he wanted to see. The thought should have bothered him more than it actually did, but it doesn't and that's just fine with him.  
  
"What did you do all day? Should I be worried about an explosion when I open the loo door?"  
  
Sherlock doesn't bother glancing and simply stabs at the dessert once more, stuffing the contents into his mouth. "Mycroft didn't stop by, thank heavens."  
  
"Oh," John says, not entirely sure how to feel about that. He skips thinking on it and moves to stand by Sherlock, picking his own fork off the counter and stealing some of the leftover strudel. "Good of him then, yeah? He would have eaten the whole thing on his own."  
  
Sherlock watches as the piece of strudel moves from plate to air to John's mouth and he swallows. Maybe he's more in over himself than he actually thought because he finds himself catering to the idea of kissing John, right then.  
  
They catch each other's glances and John nudges the last piece over towards Sherlock's fork. "You and your sweet tooth can have it."  
  
John's gone then with a grin, finding home to his chair nestled by the fire and Sherlock thinks his opportune moment has left him and he destroys the last bite of his strudel. He still kind of wants to kiss John, but he thinks it's just fine, him sitting there in his chair by the fire because, well, at the very least, John is home and that's all that matters.  
  
*  
  
"We could order out."  
  
It's nearly ten in the evening and Christmas day is ending. They've spent the last two and a half hours in the presence of each other in their sitting room, talking about anything and everything to fill the gaps of time. If John hadn't left earlier in the day and perhaps, if they had kissed just once or twice, Sherlock could swear up and down that it was the utmost perfect holiday. He's not sure how good he would be at all of that, but he finds himself more open to the idea as the day continues to unfold.  
  
"Don't want Chinese," Sherlock mutters, flipping through their stack of takeout menus. He doesn't know what he wants and it frustrates him a little but he can't find the nerve in him to express it. "Angelo's?"  
  
"Is he even open tonight?"  
  
"Probably not," Sherlock responds, texting away already, "Grab your coat. Come on."  
  
John never questions Sherlock, not anymore. He goes trailing out after Sherlock into the night of Christmas, just two steps behind the taller with a smile bestowed upon his lips. It's the perfect Christmas day to him, at the very least, and that's just fine with him too.  
  
*  
  
It's not exactly breaking in, at least since Angelo knows, but Sherlock does not tell John otherwise. He opens the back door and rummages through the kitchen of the restaurant. He tells John to take their table and the doctor does just that.  
  
It's about a thirty minute span of time and Christmas is almost done, but Sherlock has successfully made fettuccini alfredo. He carries a bottle of red wine to accompany the meal and John's waiting just there, under the dim low light with a candle on the table and two plates set. It smells delightful and it's beautiful and there they are, just the two of them.

John compliments Sherlock's cooking and they both have two glasses of wine while they down the entirety of the meal. John could ask why Sherlock's gone through all the trouble but he simply wants to enjoy it all because this - all of this - is just icing on the cake of his perfect Christmas Day. It's only then, when he's leaning against his seat, hand on his belly, does he catch Sherlock's gaze. It's different and more and something he's thought he's seen before but never really. His tongue darts out between his lips and deep down, somewhere where he is a consulting detective of his own, he realizes what this is all about and what's right here, presented to him if wanted.   
  
This is that area just above friendship that's always existed. They could have it, if they decided, equally. It's not like John could deny Sherlock anything, even if he wanted it, and it's not like Sherlock's loved anyone ever before John. John gets it now, as he catches Sherlock's gaze, and he does what he needs to do as Sherlock's doctor and partner and best friend - he leans right over and catches Sherlock's lips against his own.  
  
It probably could be described as something magical but it's just that, a singular kiss that tests that line above friendship.  
  
When John pulls away, it's just centimeters, and he looks up at his friend, whose eyes are blown and lips parted.  
  
"Thoughts?" John says. He knows he will have to break it off with Vanessa and he will have to handle new things - his sexuality for one - and he knows that while this is not a proposal, if they go through with this, there is no going back. Because he cannot exist without Sherlock as a whole - he's already tried for three long years - and that, well, that's was a bit not good. He knows that what they're trying now is new and if accepted by both parties, will be a commitment until they are gray and aging and dying.  
  
Sherlock's known all of this for a long time and only nods before leaning down to kiss John again.  
  
They get through another half a glass of wine before cleaning up the mess and locking the door behind them.  
  
*  
  
The light pole up above flickers on and off outside of Angelo's. There's just a few minutes of Christmas day left and here they are, once again, side by side, with the road to 221B just ahead of them.  
  
"It won't be easy, John," Sherlock says, his hands folded behind his back. There is a light sheen of snow falling and John's standing at his side, hands tucked into his pockets with his face upturned to the sky. "I won't be easy."  
  
John merely shrugs and continues to glance onwards, counting the stars mentally. "I'm alright with that."  
  
Sherlock watches John and he has to avoid his thoughts of how beautiful John is and how he thinks he could do this - how he will do this - just so he can keep this man at his side into the future. He focuses on what John needs to know at this moment so he can take advantage of everything else later. "There's more to me that you don't know about, John."  
  
John stops glancing upwards at the sky and looks at Sherlock curiously. "I suppose I can say the same."  
  
He's going to try for John. If anything, for John alone. "I am different."  
  
"That's alright," John says, knowing that all of this - their future and friendship and relationship and everything else will be a struggle at times, "It really is alright. You don't have to tell me everything yet, but I think I'd like to find out."  
  
Sherlock does not say many things in this one moment. He doesn't say how he really wished Mycroft had come over, because despite the fact that his brother really is a tit, he is still his brother and it is Christmas and somewhere long forgotten, when they were just youthful enough to be children, they exchanged presents and laughter and they were brothers. He does not say how he wished John would have stayed all day because he feels empty without him. He does not explain how Christmas never mattered too much until now and how much he enjoyed twirling the twinkle lights between his fingers. He doesn't press on about how he really is a different man and sometimes it just gets too loud and he has to press his head between pillows and will it all to just quiet down for a moment or two so he can once again catch up to reality. He does not say how he has a pulling in the pit of his stomach to be hugged and held and allowed to exist as a person that he is not.  
  
He knows at some point in time that he will have to tell John this - all of this - and maybe more. Maybe, someday, he will get to allow that person he hides away inside of his chest out. The one who wanted to be a pirate and the one who can watch cartoons on the telly early in the morning because the material on it is just enough to tune the rest of his brain out so he can focus on the small amount of happiness that exists just there. The one who doesn't mind curling up on the sofa with his head in John's lap while John reads from a book, just up above, where Sherlock can get lost in between the lines.  
  
There is more to that person that he is mentally registering just right now, but it's all that he can expend upon as John's looking at him with bright eyes and hidden under a layers of hues - a layer of hope.  
  
"Is it alright that it won't be easy, John?" Sherlock whispers, his voice delicate and light and something that John is not quite used to. There is a level of trust in that whisper, trust that John will offer the correct answer - the one that Sherlock does not yet know.  
  
"Of course, Sherlock."  
  
He smiles and then Sherlock, despite all his effort, is smiling too, and they are walking home.  
  
Tonight they will have the option to do many things. Perhaps John can get Sherlock to set the fireplace once again while he makes tea. Maybe Sherlock will play the violin or perhaps they will just watch late night telly and allow the start of whatever they have placed themselves into to work on it's own. Perhaps they will kiss some more or perhaps not - John's not quite sure the pace of this all but he's more than willing to let Sherlock set the tone. But really, John wouldn't mind kissing Sherlock some more - if that's an option at all. He doesn't think they'll share a bed just yet but he knows that the sofa is comfortable and if they spread out just right, there's room enough for the both of them. He's not sure, really, and nor is Sherlock, but they could do all of that or none of that and any of it would be just fine.  
  
And even now, he's not sure why, perhaps the lack of people around them or simply because Sherlock wants to, the younger takes his hand and they walk back to that home away from home. Sherlock's hand is dry and warm at the same time and it fits just fine in John's own hand.  
  
There's a lot you can do on Christmas day, but the ending to this one, well, this part, it's a bit good, yeah?  
  
A bit better than good to be honest.


End file.
